Shopping: The Real Nightmare Before Christmas

It’s no secret that I’m a bit of a curmudgeon.  Being pleasant for extended periods of time is simply exhausting to me.  So it’s not a surprise that avoiding human interaction is a huge priority during the holidays.

While I have friends that absolutely adore shopping during December, I find the whole experience about as joyous as a prison cell in Guantanamo.  The obvious solution would be to do all my shopping online, and early. Nice buzz.

I’m not nearly organized enough for that. This year I ordered my holiday cards on Thanksgiving and practically gave myself a high five because for a change they would get mailed before Christmas.  Or New Year’s.  Or Martin Luther King, Jr. Day.

As far as gifting goes, I try to give my friends something simple for me that they’ll also enjoy and use. That is, booze. There are a million liquor stores around and they’re not usually crowded.  Alcohol: the perfect gift. Except when it isn’t.

There are a few people on my list who are either age challenged, i.e. children, or don’t drink.  Since I understand that giving a child or a non-drinker a bottle of Makers Mark is considered rude and disrespectful, I find myself going to the mall at least once a season.

Naturally, I postpone this excursion as long as possible, which just makes the whole process even worse.  The thing is, even during the non-busy season, say, in June, I hate malls. They make my skin crawl.

There was dark period in my life when I actually worked at a mall. I’d been summarily dismissed from my record label gig, but still had bills to pay. It was during the holiday season, so I took a deep breath and applied to work at a bookstore - they still had them then.  I got the job, but was assigned to handle the store’s calendar kiosk, which was located in the middle of the shopping center.I still have nightmares. 

It wasn’t just the inane shoppers who purchased dozens of Robert “Miracle of Light” Kincade calendars to give to all their friends, or the non-stop holiday music, though it ruined many a Christmas Carol for me. It was the sheer numbers of people that I had contact with everyday.

Since the kiosk was positioned in smack in the center of the mall, there were always people pushing and shoving around it. And talking to each other at the top of their lungs. I’m sure it was a prime position for sales, but to me it was akin to being in Hell. You know the phrase ‘hell is other people?’ Times ten. I’d drive home after every shift whimpering and shaking.

Hanukkah begins tonight and ends on Christmas Eve.  No matter how much I’ve trimmed my gift list; there are still a few people I need to reward for remaining a part of my life.

So, without even so much as a Xanax, I’m girding myself for a trip to the mall. I don’t live far from a shopping center (does anybody anymore?) so in theory it shouldn’t take more than ten minutes until I’m plunking down my credit card and heading home.

That, however, doesn’t take into account the MMA-like exercise that it takes to obtain a parking space. I don’t mind ditching my car a million miles from the stores. I could use the exercise, particularly around the holidays.  But even in the distant outskirts of the lot it takes quick reflexes and fast thinking to park. The fact is, people drive like brain damaged maniacs at the mall this time of year. Especially the ones that are leaving.

Apparently they have been so wounded by their experiences inside the building that they’re beyond reason. Like the animal that will chew off its own foot to get out of a trap, these folks just want to get away from the stores. And they will do anything to make that happen.

This makes the half-mile from the car to the stores a little adventure, but I suppose like Darwinism, it weeds out the weak.  Eventually the strong, the survivors make it inside. Of course that’s where things really go bad.

Smart people walk into the lion’s den knowing what they want. They quickly pick it up, pay for it and run for the hills. I am not one of them.

Not me.  I wander around blindly around looking for inspiration.  Invariably I become dazed and confused. Everything is so shiny, and pretty and so that I can no longer see or think straight. Inevitably, after a few hours I’ll stagger out to my car. Having bought nothing.

This year I’m going to make it easy. Everyone is getting a box of candy from Mrs. Sees.  Maybe those cute chocolate Santas for the kids. I’m sure their parents won’t mind that they are hopped up on sugar all Christmas morning. Right?

A Jew Takes On Holiday Lights

I adore Christmas lights. When I was a kid we used to pile in the car and drive around town looking for homeowners who made an effort. It helped that we were in New England, and by Christmas the whole place was usually covered in new snow – which unlike old, dirty, slushy snow is pretty and festive.  You know, New England-y.

There was one family who really did it up. Perched on the roof was a Santa in a sleigh pulled by reindeer. The lawn was sprinkled with decorated trees and Ye Olde Carolers.  There was even holiday music piped out to the street. The week of Christmas a man dressed as Santa and gave away cookies on the doorstep.  ‘Course this was a long time ago. Now he’d be suspected of being a pedophile.

When I first moved to California I believed that that my best light-watching days were behind me. We barely have a winter, limited pine trees and certainly no snow. Boy, was I wrong.

Not only does the DWP sponsor a holiday light extravaganza, but there are at least two neighborhoods in Los Angeles County dubbed “Candy Cane Lane.” Any of the houses in these neighborhoods easily put my childhood memories to shame. They can probably be seen from the Space Station.  Naturally I love them.

When I lived in North Hollywood, one of my neighbors was a little loony. And not just because he had a pack of Pugs and Chihuahuas. Bad taste is part of what make holiday decorations great, and he was going for the title.

Year round his tiny yard featured a 10-foot, working Ferris wheel with stuffed animals in each car.  During the holidays they all received Santa hats. But that was just the start.  There was also the first blow up Grinch I’d ever seen, as well as Frosty the Snowman, Snoopy with Woodstock, Rudolf the Red-Nosed Reindeer and for good measure, a couple of old school, white wire deer, trimmed with lights. It looked like a Christmas store had thrown up. It was absolutely awesome!

I’m sure part of my attraction to holiday decorations is that I’m Jewish, and while my family is not deeply religious, we never even had a Hanukkah bush.  My dad was very tolerant, but he drew the line at trees and lights.

I didn’t exactly suffer. My aunt is Catholic, and, every year she let my brother and I decorate her tree.  She is, however, an extremely tasteful woman and her tree is likewise. Mostly old beautiful ornaments, white lights and actual popcorn strands.  And tinsel. She let us go wild with the tinsel. 

Until about four years ago it didn’t occur to me that I was an adult and could have a Hanukkah tree in my house if I wanted. Maybe I had to wait until my dad died. All I know is that my last year in North Hollywood, I bought a tiny living tree and a strand of lights and set it up in my front window. It made me very, very, happy. Who knew I was that easily pleased?

When I moved to my little ranchette in Chatsworth I continued the tradition. Every year I’d get a little rosemary tree and decorate it. The rosemary made the whole house smell great, so I convinced myself it was really there to help cover the smell of wet dog. Nothing can cover the smell of wet dog.

Last year was my first foray into outdoor lights. Even though I adore those fat, old fashioned, multi-colored bulbs, I reined myself in and bought strands of blue and white ones. I popped them out of the box, carefully wrapped them around the round pen in the front yard (Doesn’t EVERY house have a round pen in the front yard?) and plugged them in. It looked awesome.

All my life I’d heard horror stories about stringing holiday lights. The way people bitched and moaned and carried on, you’d think they were being forced to build IKEA furniture. I thought  the whole thing was pretty easy.  Obviously the kvetchers were complete morons.

This year I decided to go wild and add a second strand of outdoor lights. But first I had to unpack the lights I'd carefully put away last year.  It took an hour to untangle them, but it was a pleasant day, so it wasn’t a big deal. 

Then I opened the new lights and wrapped them around the fence. It didn’t have that Martha Stewart look, so I undid them and rewrapped it.  Again and again. Finally it looked tolerable. I plugged it in… and it all shorted out.  I might have said a few bad words. Or many.

But I’m not a quitter. So I trekked back to Lowes, bought a bunch more lights and actually read the instructions. Apparently you can only connect a certain number of strands together or they will blow. Ooops.

By the time I got back to my house it was getting dark and I was over the whole thing. I rapidly hung the damn lights however they came out of the box.  Still when I plugged them in, it was beautiful.

While I was in Lowes, I saw that they had a 10-foot blow-up rubber ducky wearing a Santa hat. That would look AMAZING inside the round pen, wouldn’t it?

Hollywood Park is Closed; I Had to Spend Thanksgiving with My Family

Last week I went back East to spend Thanksgiving with my family for the first time in ten years. I don’t have anything particularly against my family, though taken all together they can be a somewhat intimidating bunch.  I hadn’t gone home for the holiday because until this year I had a job that, in addition to being awful, had a huge annual deadline that fell immediately after turkey day.

In practical terms what that meant was that for most of the previous decade I had what I believed was a perfect Thanksgiving ritual. First I’d go to Hollywood Park and watch the races. Because of the holiday, the shortened card began and ended early, which allowed everyone to lose money and then go home to their families and try to explain it over dinner.

After the last race, I’d hit the multiplex with a bucket of popcorn and watch a movie. It was fabulous. If I was lucky the only people I’d talk to all day were my friends at the track and the ticket-taker at the movies. A quick call to my folks after the film, and all was good.

That’s all in the past now. Last December, amid a lot of tears and anger, Hollywood Park closed. Oh, and I ditched the heinous gig. I was now free, nay, compelled, to see my family for the holiday. I no longer had a viable excuse for staying away.

I arrived on Monday and planned to leave on Saturday morning in order to avoid horrifically jammed airports. Unfortunately the only flight back left at 7am, which meant I had to leave my mom’s farm at 4:30 in the morning.  

I comforted myself with the thought that it was just 1:30 am West Coast time, and I’d arrive home in time to feed the horses their lunch. That helped a bit when I was scraping ice off the frozen car in 14 degrees in the pitch black morning. It also reminded me why I live in Southern California.

                

           The trip itself was surprisingly nice, though I admit spending an entire day in the company of more than a dozen other humans is rough. The truth is that I live alone for a reason: being pleasant for extended periods of exhausting – and hard work. I guess it builds character. At least that’s what mom insists.

               

           With that many people who are related and therefore far beyond party manners, there is bound to be drama. This Thanksgiving was no exception.

                

           One of my earliest holiday memories is from when lived in Connecticut. We had a big old house that sported a formal dining room which was separated from a butler’s pantry by way of a swinging door.  This particular year the house was packed. The dining room table stretched into the hallway. The head count numbered in the 20s.

               

           Dinner was humming along. With everyone happily tucking into the first course, Mom had taken the giant turkey out of the oven and left it ‘resting’ on a table in pantry, waiting to be presented.  The bird was giant, golden brown and perfectly enticing. Apparently I wasn’t the only one that thought so.

               

When the almost inevitable crash came from the kitchen area, no one was unduly alarmed. Most people probably didn’t even hear it – 20 people are pretty loud. So only a few sharp-eyed relatives saw the breathtaking sight when mom opened the pantry door: There, standing on the table reveling

in the kind of bliss that only a dachshund knee-and-snout-deep in turkey can experience, was our dog, Doxie.

I honestly don’t really remember what happened next. If it had been me, my reaction would have been what I may or may not have done years later when my dog ate part of a cake I made for a dinner party: wiped off the dog hair and served the non-gobbled part.  Since I don’t recall pizza being delivered that night, I suspect that mom did the same.

This year the trouble arrived before the relatives, in the form of the first November Nor’easter New England had experienced more than a decade. In the Berkshires, where mom now lives, we received a little more than a foot of snow. And the guy that never fails to plow the half-mile driveway was on vacation. Because it hadn’t snowed at Thanksgiving in the Berkshires for more than ten years.

Naturally, there was a good deal of hysteria coming down with the snow. This year 16 brave souls were expected for dinner.  If they could get up the driveway.  If not, there were going to be a whole lot of leftovers. And I’m a vegetarian.

It didn’t come to that. I’ve learned a lot from my parents, but one of the best lessons is simple: be nice. If that fails, be pathetic.

Mom, who recently celebrated her 84^th birthday, is a master of both.  Her village is small and everybody seems to know everyone else. That has upsides and downsides, but one of the positives is that people take care of one another. So when mom called a man with a plow, he not only knew her, he liked her. She turned on her best little-old-lady-alone-in-the-world charm and the guy was out of his pajamas and plowing our driveway at 8:30 on Thanksgiving morning before he knew what hit him.

By the time the relatives started arriving, the driveway was pristine. The sun came out, and the snow glistened.  The birds flocked to the stocked feeders and nearby trees.  The food (and wine) was good. All in all, it was quite pleasant. I might come back in another ten years. Maybe even sooner.